


Forgiveness

by dragonet



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bullying, Draco isn't very well, Eating Disorders, F/M, Friendship, Physical Abuse, Violence, neither is Hermione, oh well, poor babies, probably completely OOC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-23 23:05:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1582691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonet/pseuds/dragonet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a boy wearing long sleeves, the only boy in a whole school to wear shirtsleeves in the hot, hot summer weather. The students will not look at him, or talk to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forgiveness

**Author's Note:**

> Soo. This is long. And probably boring. But I had such feels about post-DH dramione and how it would play out. There's no kissing because I just don't think that would happen at this junction, but hey. You never know.

 

There is a boy wearing long sleeves, the only boy in a whole school to wear shirtsleeves in the hot, hot summer weather. The students will not look at him, or talk to him. They will talk about him, in earshot, spit at him, bump him, knock him, curse him. _Filthy traitor. Blood purist. He did it. Murderer. **Murderer**._ They will torture him. They will corner him in corridors and quiet places in the grounds and they will hit him and curse him and leave him and he will let them do it, because he is a coward, because he knows they are right, because he is so very afraid and only just beginning to realise how scared he really is.

After all, what will his life be now? No money, no house, no qualifications, no prospects, no parents. Gringotts emptied. No friends left but two or three, and they’re in the same boat as him. Even Quidditch, which he had loved, is gone. As though the House team would have him any more. There is barely any house left. This year, all the first-year Slytherins were booed. Professor McGonagall was so enraged, she sentenced the protagonists to detention for the whole year. He stared at a knot in the table, tracing it over and over again with a finger until he could leave and be swallowed up by the glorious unconsciousness of his bed.

He did quite well the first few weeks; he made every class, despite the glares and the two times he ended up in the hospital wing. Once he was hit by a spell that causes extreme dizziness, and the other someone hung him up by the ankle while others stole his books and quills, before sending him crashing to the floor, breaking his arm. There are no silly jinxes or joke toe-nail growing hexes. These people are aiming to hurt him. The instigators of this are invariably Gryffindors, although there are some Ravenclaws out for revenge and even a couple of Hufflepuffs. He was taken by surprise at first by the ferocity of the attackers, but he’s given that up. It’s the nature of the beast, after all.

He began to go downhill after visiting the hospital wing every day for a week. He started to sleep in late, go to bed early, spend his time closeted in his dormitory, sitting on his bed with the curtains closed, spelled against intruders. He still, furiously, doggedly, stubbornly eats dinner in the Great Hall with the rest of the students, never mind the whispers and chatter and occasional curses. He learns to walk the halls with a magical shield around him. None of the teachers question this, although every Prefect he passes reports him for use of magic in the hallway.

He expects to receive good grades in his NEWTs, after all this studying. In fact, he’s aiming to beat Granger, who strides around the school as if she owns it, and never even glances his way.

One day he is sitting on the cool stone floor outside the Great Hall. Most of the students are outside, studying in the heat or paddling in the lake or just lying there, too hot to move. He’s waiting for the Hall to empty sufficiently, so he can take a sandwich without being glared at. His long sleeves don’t bother him that much; the poly-cotton mix shirt is light. It’s still hot, though, and he can feel sweat down his back.

He has to be careful not to get his sleeves wet, or the red ink on his arm will show through, like a schoolgirl’s bra. Once, he would have found this an amusing, arousing comparison. Now, the thought of his tattoo, and indeed bras, makes him wince.

“What are you doing down there?” a sharp voice cuts through his thoughts. Startled, he looks up. Who’s talking to him? Who is it that doesn’t know who he is?

“Malfoy,” she says.

She has not changed a bit. Her round, tense calves show under her grey pleated skirt – but she has changed, if only a little. Her shirt is dirty, and yellowing. Her skirt is too baggy, the fabric is pilling, and the pleats have fallen out, leaving her with a grey sack. Her robes are black, but there’s potion stains on the hem of the sleeve, and she’s not wearing a tie or jumper at all. She’s carrying, of course, the old leather satchel, stuffed with books.

Her hair is even wilder than usual. She’s attempted to tame it into a braid, but it hasn’t worked. Small strands stand free around her face. She looks demented. Her eyes look heavy, like blinking is difficult, and red. He wonders if she’s tired. He huffs, puts the back of his head against the cold stone wall again.

“Hello, Granger,” he says. He peeks. She looks surprised at his civility.

“Why aren’t you outside?” she asks.

He laughs humourlessly. “Why aren’t I outside?” he repeats, and finds the old fear rising in him, converting to anger and bitterness. “I’m not outside because these lovely long sleeves get a little hot in direct sunlight. And I burn easily.”

She sits down beside him, tucking her legs under her. His are bent out across the corridor, his elbows resting on his knees. He stares at her.

“Thank you for returning my wand,” she says softly. He glances at the ground, shrugs. “No, really. I didn’t feel right without it.”

“Thank Potter for returning my wand,” he says bitterly.

“I will,” she replies, not hearing or choosing to ignore the sarcasm in his voice. She unbends her legs, heaves the book satchel over her shoulder. He watches her walk off. She turns.

“Draco,” she begins hesitantly.

“Goodbye,” he says, closing his eyes.

“If you ever need somewhere to go, or someone to talk to,” she says. “The Head’s Common Room is behind the statue of Egbert the Egregious, on the fifth floor. The password is liquorice.”

She whips around, face red, and marches quickly out of sight.

 

***

 

He knows he is a coward. That’s what’s blessed him with such a long lifespan; a mousy tendency to run and hide.

They say Slytherins are like snakes, but he thinks mice are a much better comparison. For sure they’re cuddlier. But mice run, hide, scurry, keep an alert eye – but all too often they can’t see the bigger picture, and then they’re caught in a trap. Dead, if they’re lucky.

Sometimes he catches himself thinking about Granger’s offer. He can dimly see an imagined future, a future where they talk amicably about things, or play chess, or practice spells. It’s like a soap bubble, that future; it hovers just out of reach, and if he prods it too much, it bursts. It’s a future where he’s a better person, where he doesn’t have to run and hide. A future where he can be a good guy. A future with a future.

A particular Wednesday just a few weeks before his exams. He hates Wednesday; it’s too close to Monday and too far away from Friday. The weather is sweltering. Students fall asleep in class. Either his attackers are giving up, or they’re just too hot. He’s started to feel cautiously optimistic. After all, it’s not long until he’s out of here, and then he can do…what, exactly? He doesn’t know.

That afternoon, he’s cornered by three of them on the sixth floor. Muggleborns, who used their fists instead of their wands, purposely, and blacked his eye and split his lip and his eyebrow and possibly broke a few ribs, although he’s not sure about that. He’s come to prefer these Muggle beatings. Magic is too messy, too painful, and has too much scope. A magical attack could kill him. At least it’s unlikely that a Muggle one will.

He thinks the best that can be said about him in these attacks is that once he’s cornered, he stops running.

Afterwards he lies there for a minute before levering himself to his feet. The world spins disconcertingly and settles. He grits his teeth grimly. At least the hospital wing isn’t far away.

He pushes open the double doors to find Madam Pomfrey busy with a patient.

“Good afternoon, Mr Malfoy,” she says curtly, nodding to him. He sits himself down on a bed. She’s used to him in here by now, as he’s used to her. He knows she doesn’t dislike him, that’s just her way. In an odd sense, it comforts him. “For goodness’ sake, Mr Creevy! Sit still!”

He touches his eyebrow with a fingertip, draws it away red. The only thing he can think about is how red it looks against his pale skin.

The door swings open jauntily.

“Afternoon Poppy,” someone calls out. He shuts his eyes in dread. Not her, not here, not now. Dammit, Granger.

“Hello, Miss Granger,” Madam Pomfrey says. “Put the potions in the cupboard, if you’d be so kind. Wait a moment until I’ve finished reattaching Mr Creevy’s eyebrows.”

He peeks. The potions cupboard is to his left. _Dammit._

Footsteps pass him, pause, continue. He breathes out softly. Maybe the Muggleborns gave him such a beating his face is unrecognisable. He snorts at himself silently. Wishful thinking.

The cupboard door squeaks as she opens it and then there’s a clink of bottles as she removes the potions from her bag and sets them on the shelves. He peeks. Her hair is neater today, although it appears she’s come straight from Potions. There are pink and blue stains all over her sleeves, which are looking threadbare. He watches her hands lift, place, turn the bottles so the label is facing forwards, pausing as they search for the correct shelf, placing, turning. He shuts his eyes again.

He hears her walk back towards him, then a cold finger touches his face. He twitches away.

“Do be quiet, Mr Malfoy,” Madam Pomfrey scolds crossly. “Mr Creevy, you are _not_ leaving like that, your eyebrows are askew.”

“What have you done to yourself?” she says. He’s surprised again by how friendly her voice is.

“I fell over,” he mutters.

“What, did you fall down the stairs in the Astronomy Tower?” she snorts. “Weak excuse, Malfoy.”

“What do you want me to say?” he hisses, temper boiling over. He glares at her.

“I want to know the truth,” she says calmly, looking him right in the eye. He looks away deliberately. “If someone or several someones-”her eyes flick to Dennis Creevy“-are bullying you, it’s my job as Head Girl to stop it.”

“‘My job as Head Girl to stop it’,” he mimics unkindly. “You’d make yourself the least popular Head Girl ever. And you’d be fighting a losing battle anyway.”

“I don’t care,” she says fiercely. “Harry trusts you enough to let you go free from Azkaban. Dumbledore knew there was more to you than anyone thought, even you-”

“Has it not occurred to you, Granger,” he growls, “that I might just be coward?”

She blinks, speechless.

“Don’t look for things that aren’t there,” he advises, as Madam Pomfrey shoos Dennis Creevy from the room.

“Sorry, Miss Granger, Mr Malfoy. Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes Exploding Cards,” she offers a brisk explanation. “Now, Mr Malfoy, what have you done to yourself this time?”

 

***

 

Last night he had a dream, and when he woke up he felt the lack of it so acutely, it was as though his future was sitting on his chest. It disturbed him, that dream, it made him uncomfortable. The dream was this.

_He is standing on the seashore. Grey waves break harshly on the gritty sand. Grey clouds reflected in the unstill waters. Seagulls screaming above the wind._

_“Daddy! Daddy!” not birds but children, two children, near the tideline .Their white-blonde hair shone in the dull day, and they were so pale, they could have been drowned. They ran up the shingle towards him, just as he felt an indulgent touch at his cheek. He turned._

_The woman beside him was wearing a soft blue dress; he recognised it as one of his mother’s dresses. She was his mother, but not; she was not pale, her hair was not white, her eyes were not grey. She was altogether vibrant in the monochrome dream; he could see every freckle on her cheeks, every brown eyelash, every touch of gold in her brown eyes, every white flower on her dress. Her hair was plaited down her back, but it still managed to escape, to whip tendrils round her face in the sea breeze. Her gently rounded tummy swelled outwards, pushing at the fabric._

_She put her arm around his waist and raises her other to wave at the children. She is laughing, and they are laughing, panting as they scramble up the last steep slope. She breaks free from him to kneel and hug them, and closer to he sees that the little girl’s hair is as unruly as hers, a mane of blonde tangles. She stops, sensing something wrong, looks over her shoulder at him._

_“Draco?”_

_It’s her voice, that voice, questioning, knowing, thinking. He feels dizzy._

_Hermione. He doesn’t want to say it. He doesn’t like her name. He doesn’t like her._

_But then the wave comes, a wave as big and grey as the sky, and sweeps them all up and he’s adrift in endless grey water, calling her name and reaching out, but there’s no one there._

He wakes, panting, horror-struck, one hand reaching vainly across the hot sheets.

In another life, before this nightmare of existing, if he’d had the chance, he would have taken her. If he’d been stronger, if she’d been interested. He wasn’t, she wasn’t. It was sandpit games, the little boy pulling the little girl’s hair, unconsciously hurting her, trying to tell her he liked her. That he wanted to be friends.

 

***

 

He finds himself, one day, running mechanically and desperately through the fifth floor. His pursuers and he make no sound, other than laboured breathing and the sound of feet slapping the floor. They’re Gryffindors, he thinks, and he knew at least one of their siblings; siblings whose names are now chiselled into the monument in the grounds. _They will not grow old as we who are left will grow old._

Someone hits him with the same trip jinx he once felled Harry Potter with. He falls over, skinning his palms. They are on him in a moment; a blitz of fists and hexes. Someone Vanishes his shirt, and the Dark Mark stares blackly up at them. There’s a small collective gasp of horror and revulsion. One of them, a boy whose face he conspicuously forgets, stands over him, breathing hard, hand clenched around his wand.

“Diffindo,” he breathes, pointing his wand at Draco’s arm. He yells in agony as layer after layer of skin is stripped off, leaving no difference in the cursed ink. It’s branded into his bones. When the skin grows back, it’ll be there. Blood flows, sticky and rust-smelling.

“ _What_ is going on here?” a voice, a voice full of fire and anger. “What are you doing? Get away from there!”

The people around him are scattered. Someone leans down, peers at him.

“Draco,” she mutters, turning to them. His attackers cower away. “How _dare_ you attack another student,” she says quietly, her voice alive with fury. “How _dare_ you. I know all of your names, and this matter will be reported to your Heads of House. If I had pulled this stunt, I would be expelled.”  
“But he-” one of the particularly brave Gryffindors mutters.

“I do not _care_ ‘what he’,” she snarls. “Get out of my sight, before I have you in front of the Headmistress.”

They run. He drifts in and out of consciousness, not sure where he is. Surely he’s in bed? He’s so comfortable.

Cold hands touch his face, his shoulders, hover helplessly over his eyelids before gently peeling one back.

“Dammit, Granger,” he mutters, hearing his own voice as though through a long tunnel, “I want to go to sleep.”

“Don’t go to sleep,” she implores him. He shut his eyes, and receives a sharp slap to the face. “Just hold on.”  
He’s dimly aware of being rushed along, agony burning his arm. He thinks he can see her, but she’s put weight back on, hasn’t she? No; she’s wearing that blue dress, floaty and pretty and entirely not her, and her hair is smooth and sleek and shiny… He stares at her calves.

“Stupid dress…” he mumbles. Her footsteps pick up pace. He opens his mouth; he wants to tell her about later that night, when he lay in his bed, furious with himself, hands fisted at his sides. Rock hard and aching for release and irately, feverishly, denying himself pleasure. _Stupid Mudblood._

 

***

 

When he wakes up, he’s aware of a whiteness around him, through his closed eyelids. It’s hot, summer heat exacerbated by heavy bedclothes. He is also not alone.

He opens his eyes onto blinding whiteness and closes them again, watering ferociously. He peeks, slowly, waiting to accustom himself before looking more fully.

He’s in the hospital wing, of course. There’s a bandage around his left forearm; underneath, it itches. It’s fully daylight, maybe after midday, and outside it looks… scorching. He swivels his head without lifting it. He feels so heavy.

Granger is sitting next to the bed, but she’s fallen asleep; he wonders how long she’s been there. Her face is buried in the bedclothes next to his bandaged arm. Her hair is frizzy, but it looks so soft. Hesitantly, he moves his left hand just slightly to push his fingertips into the curls, some defined and hanging long and loopy, some merely frizzed. It’s downy, almost like the fur on a puppy.

She stirs and he moves his hand away immediately. Slowly, she sits up, pushing her hair off her face.

“Oh, you’re awake,” she gasps. He refrains from rolling his eyes with immense difficulty. “Poppy, he’s awake!”

Madam Pomfrey hurries from her office, efficiently swiping two potions from her trolley as she does so. “How are you feeling, Mr Malfoy?” she asks, beginning to untie the bandage.

“Just fine,” he replies sulkily. He averts his eyes from his arm, although he hears Hermione gasp. Madam Pomfrey drips a liquid over the wound that stings and burns.

“You should be fine in a few hours,” she comments. “I daresay if you’re feeling strong enough, some food would do you good.”  
He takes his cue to leave and swings his legs out of bed. For a brief second the whole world screams – and then he’s fine, and he stands up. Granger hovers nervously around him.

“Thanks,” he mutters to Pomfrey, making his way out.

In the blissfully cool stone corridor, he turns to her. “You can go, you’ve got better things to do.”

She lingers, uncertain. “Are you sure-”

“I’m sure,” unnecessarily harsh. “Go.”

She looks as him like he’s hit her. She turns and hurries off down the corridor.

 

***

 

Exams start. He’s thankful, because it means he only has to concentrate on the paper, just the paper, white and blinding. Then he can get back to his empty dormitory, and sit in silence with the curtains spelled closed, revising the same things over and over.

No matter how hot he gets, he doesn’t take the long sleeves off. In the shower, he avoids looking at himself; hips and ribs jutting reproachfully under thin skin, that accusatory mark burning his forearm and eclipsing all else. Most days he just doesn’t feel like eating.

On Friday, he takes his Charms Theory exam. It’s even hotter that day, liquid fire pouring through the high windows in the Great Hall. His shirt has been sticking to his back all day. The white page, usually so comforting with its promise of losing himself in remembered information, seems threatening. He can’t remember the last time he ate. He feels sick, too hot. Soft ringing circles his head, grey spots climbing in the corner of his vision. He sways in his seat and collapses sideways onto the stone floor.

 

His pillow is soft. He stretches slightly, pleased with the tug on his muscles. He hasn’t felt this rested in years.

“Malfoy?” a familiar voice asks. He pushes his face deeper into the feather pillow and doesn’t answer, but unwelcome recollection creeps back. _Charms Theory_.

He sits bolt upright, but his eyes are immediately overcome with a grey mist. Cold hands catch his shoulders, push him back down until he can see the ceiling. Her worried face comes into focus above him, small strands of hair falling to tickle his face.

He slaps them away and tries to ask what happened, but his throat is so parched he can’t make a sound. He clears his throat while she disappears and comes back with a goblet of water. He hauls himself up on the pillows to drink it.

“What happened?” he asks hoarsely.

“You fainted,” she says, staring at her fingers. There’s a chair by his bed, a ball of cornflower blue wool and a pair of knitting needles clicking away, magically churning out a scarf. Has she been here the whole time?

“Well, I grasped that,” he snaps. Does she always have to state the obvious? Not everyone is as clever as her, but not everyone is stupid either.

“Sorry,” she says, startled. “You fainted in Charms Theory. That’s all I know,” but she avoids his eyes.

“What?” he says, then repeats it louder when she doesn’t reply, “what?”

“Well… you’re very thin,” she says to her lap.

“I am aware,” he bites out. He can dimly see where this is going, and he doesn’t like it.

“I mean… when was the last time you ate?”

“Yesterday?” he lies. She gives him a look which tells him she’s not fooled.

“As if,” she scoffs, and suddenly the Granger he knows is back, not that timid, scruffy girl he’s been seeing recently. She stands up and snatches his arm. “ _This_ is not ‘I haven’t eaten for a few days, Malfoy. This is ‘I’ve been neglecting my body and expecting it to function as normal’.”

He’s sucked in a quick breath, shocked because no one’s touched him voluntarily for - months, at least, and her cold fingers have closed around the tattoo, hidden under white cotton.

She looks down and realises where her hand is, but she doesn’t release him. He moves to pull away, but she seizes his sleeve and pushes it up, exposing the Dark Mark’s baleful glare.

“You’re more than this,” she says fiercely, quietly. She shakes his wrist like a rag doll and he looks away from the anger in her eyes. “This doesn’t define you, you know that.”

“I know,” he grits, clenching his teeth. There’s an odd burning feeling starting in his nose.

“Those people,” she whispers, softer now, “yeah, that was your fault. Entirely. But everyone makes mistakes.”

“What mistakes have _you_ made?” he snaps at her before he can help it. She looks down at where her fingers are wrapped around his arm. “How many people have _you_ killed, Granger? How many friends? How-”

“I’ve made mistakes,” she says without heat. “And I forgive myself for those, because that’s in the past, and it’s unimportant. You’ve been given a second chance, Draco. Don’t let yourself waste it.”

He bows his head and can’t answer for a moment. There’s a lump in his throat and his nose is burning and his eyesight is blurring. He shakes his head.

“No matter what those people do or say, you’re worth a second chance,” she says somewhere above him. “Dumbledore thought so, and so do I. You’re worth forgiveness.”

And that does it. Hot tears spill over, plopping onto the coverlet. She makes a noise between surprise and pity, moving instinctively towards him, but he puts out a hand and stops her, weeping between gritted teeth.

They sit that way in the silent hospital wing, the young man crying behind his blond hair, holding the young woman away from him.


End file.
